


The bridge is on fire

by thecrackshiplollipop



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrackshiplollipop/pseuds/thecrackshiplollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franky and Erica, post-season one finale. How it should go, in an ideal world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The bridge is on fire

Erica doesn’t see Franky for a week after that. Their next meeting is brief and painfully formal, but they’re talking. It’s not about what Erica wants to talk about - the kiss, the hand on her throat, the fact that her  _office_ is the least appropriate place for something like that to happen (as if there is one, at all), or the fact that she’s burning hot as soon as Franky looks at her - but about Franky’s upcoming school assignments.

She hands them over to Erica at the end of their meeting (they’re in the library, and suddenly the space that once meant sanctuary for them is the most oppressive room in the whole prison) and leaves with this incomprehensible smile on her face. She’s thinking about the kiss.

That night Erica goes home and, thinking about it until she’s so aroused she’s actually disgusted with herself, she stays in the living room all night to avoid looking at Mark.

He has no idea her whole world has changed, only that they’ve stopped having sex. _Again_.

Erica falls asleep halfway through a glass of wine, before she can finish reviewing Franky's work. She sleeps fitfully, dreaming of Franky's insistent mouth, long fingers applying the gentlest of pressure to her windpipe, and Franky's thigh pressing against her through the material of her pants. Franky's eyes are dark and she says something that Erica can't hear, deaf to anything but the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. Franky laughs, Erica feels it rumbling against her mouth, and then she's awake, the light from the kitchen blurring her vision.

Her back aches from sleeping on the uncomfortable sofa, there's a headache forming behind her eyes and an ache between her legs that she can only blame on the vividness of her dream. It's not even past six but Mark is already up, moving about the kitchen like at any moment he's going to start _talking_ to her. She dashes to the bathroom, moaning about her headache, and only manages to find relief under the hot spray of the shower.

If just  _dreaming_ about Franky kissing her makes her so wet she needs to get off immediately, she can’t imagine actually kissing Franky again.

But, it happens again. Of course it does, it  _has_ to. Erica feels the need for it singing through her whole body as she goes through her day, filing paperwork and reviewing requests. She's scheduled to meet with Franky after lunch, to go over her assignments and she's so distracted she ducks out of a meeting early, just to have, fifteen minutes to herself. She tells herself it's time to finish her review of the assignments, but really she needs time to collect herself before dealing with Franky. She has herself tucked in the back corner where they used to study when she was just an advocate and Franky was just her pupil. (Like she was ever _just_ her pupil.) The corner is obstructed from the cameras by the odd placement of the bookshelves and it creates the illusion of privacy by being hidden from the bank of computers by a privacy wall. It used to be their favourite place, where Franky didn't feel the need to throw her weight around and impress people, where she let Erica see her for who she is. Now, Erica feels like she's being watched, even though the library is empty, silent save for the hum of sleeping computers.

As if Franky can sense opportunity, the library doors bang open and in she saunters directly to where Erica is just settling into her chair.

Erica’s less surprised at Franky being early than she is at the fact that she’s arrived unaccompanied.

"All alone today, Miss Davidson?"

Erica ignores the flirtatious lilt in Franky's voice and tries to avoid eye contact. "Shouldn’t you have an escort?"

"Convinced that new guard to let me out of lunch to review the last chapter," she waves the law book in her hand at Erica before setting it down on the table. “Didn't think you'd be here. Where’s the monitor?"

"I let him go to lunch early. I needed some... quiet." Erica regrets sending the monitor off immediately because Franky doesn’t take a seat. Instead, she moves around the table to where Erica is sitting and, with the tips of her fingers, pushes Erica’s chin up until they’re looking into each others’ eyes.

"We’re not going to talk about this, are we?"

"Ab-" 

Franky doesn’t give her the chance to respond. Instead, she leans down and presses her mouth to Erica’s. Her hand slides down Erica’s throat, four fingers on the nape of her neck and her thumb applying just the hint of pressure to Erica’s windpipe to keep her head tilted back just right. Erica groans Franky’s name, a needy noise choked by the pressure of Franky’s thumb. 

"You  _like_ that." Franky whispers, her mouth still against Erica’s. She brings up her other hand, laces her fingers behind Erica’s neck, and uses both thumbs to apply just enough pressure to make each one of Erica’s breaths rasp noisily. She’s panting in small gasps and she can feel her heartbeat, erratic, pounding against Franky’s fingers. She has zero control over her body, feeling the pull of desire stretch out from the centre of her, so she looks into Franky’s eyes - seeing the mixed wonderment and arousal - and just nods her admission helplessly.

Franky kisses her again, hard and unwavering in its mercilessness, but moves one hand from Erica’s throat and grazes the curve of her breast over her shirt. When she palms the full curve of it Erica lets out a soft cry and then a whine when Franky pulls away.

She almost voices a complaint, but then Franky looks over her shoulder and Erica can finally hear footsteps in the hallway and the loud voice of the library monitor.

"You can’t ignore this any more."

"Why?" It’s the wrong question to ask so breathlessly, but she can’t help herself.

"Because next time I’m not going to stop there. Because next time I’m going to fuck you and when you come you’ll be saying my name. And I’m going to need more than five stolen minutes with you." Franky looks dead serious, the library doors swing open, and then she takes a seat opposite Erica. Her textbook is open in a flash looking for all the world like nothing ever happened.

Except it did happen, Erica’s lips are swollen and her throat is tender. She twists her hips through their whole tutoring session, searching for a little relief to the ache of arousal. Franky catches her squirming at one point and, though she doesn’t say anything, she smirks in such a lascivious way that Erica feels her whole body flush with new want. 

That night she chokes on a sob of Franky’s name as she touches herself in the shower, the sound reverberating off the vaulted ceiling like the sweetest music. She’s glad Mark’s working late because she’s loud and the moans slip from her unguarded as she comes so hard her knees go weak and she has to brace her back against the shower wall. 

She slips out of the house before dawn and runs three miles before the sun makes an appearance. Her chest aches and her legs burn but all she can think about is Franky wanting to fuck her, and how goddamn good it would feel. 

She wonders if it would be obvious if she called in sick, but takes another shower, instead. Franky would love knowing how much water she's wasting, just for the chance at privacy. Mark is still asleep, so she muffles Franky’s name against the heel of her hand as she comes hard and fast, and then washes herself clean. 

She won’t see Franky privately for another week, but when they pass each other in the yard, Franky mumbles something low and dirty that rolls straight through Erica’s being and between her legs. She thinks, maybe, one tutoring session a week is not enough.


End file.
